Writing Things Down Makes Them Absolute, Not Sensible.

Stupid mistakes. Yet we make them still. Despite their stupidity. It's like I crave to be complex or something. Like I can't stand just being happy on a normal, first floor level. I have to have a complication that makes me... I don't know... different, I guess. I try and go with things. Just forget and be happy. Not happy, content. That's a better word. But I always drag myself down in thought. Like something has to be wrong. But things are wrong. A hundred things are wrong right now with my family. But I choose to ignore them and focus on my problems. Almost making them up as I go along. Problems for the sake of problems. There must be something wrong with me (there I go again). Maybe it's because I gave up something. No, I gave up on something. Something that made me different (love). Parenthesis hardly seems to cover the word. Yet I can't bring myself to throw it in with all the meaningless other words. So silly. I may not even be making any sense right now. But that's just okay.